


Call Me Gene

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cancer, M/M, Slow Burn, Some Fluff, Therapy, not as angsty as you'd expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 16:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15667122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: “Tumor?” Babe snorted. “What ya mean like cancer?”Dr. Winters, with all of his polite composure, said quite simply. “Yes, Mr. Heffron, like cancer."OR: Babe Heffron finds out he has cancer, and his doctors encourage him to seek the aid of therapist Dr. Gene Roe.





	Call Me Gene

**Author's Note:**

> I watched 50/50 with Joseph Gordon Levitt, and then, this happened. 
> 
> Shameless stealing abounds.

When Babe Heffron got in the car Monday morning, his tie was askew and his rowdy red hair was fluffed up in a funny way. “Alright, alright, I'm here. Let's go. Quit honking. I'm fucking _here_.”

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine.” Bill Guarnere sneered at his best friend. “You're late.” He thumped the clock on the dash, and added, pointedly, “Again.”

“I'm not—look, I'm _here._ Can we please just go already?”

Bill sniffed as Babe strapped on his seat belt. “What the fuck is that smell?” He leaned over the gear shift to take a whiff of Babe's clothes and hair.

“What're you-?” Babe jerked away. “ _Stahp_. I ran outta my shampoo this mornin'. Had to use Julian's.”

Backing the car out of Babe's driveway, Bill wrinkled his nose and looked offended. “You smell like a goddamn Hobby Lobby. Leave it to your boyfriend to have the fruitiest damn smelling shampoo on the planet.”

“Look, c'mon, fuck off,” Babe grumbled, suppressing a groan. Bill's and Julian's stupid feud was the absolute last thing Babe needed this morning. “I can't take your bitching this early in the day. Not yet. I got a headache, alright, and-”

“Again? Jesus Christ, kid, ya dyin', or somethin'? Ya head's always fuckin' hurtin' these days.”

“S'cause I'm so goddamn smart. Not enough room up here-” Babe gestured his head. “-for all my smarts.”

His best friend merely snorted as he maneuvered the car onto the freeway toward the brewery where he and Babe worked. “Yeah, that's definitely it.”

* * *

Dr. Richard Winters was, as far as Babe could tell, the most respectable human being to ever grace the planet earth. He was all calm, confident smiles and straight shoulders and perfectly manicured...everything. His hair was neatly combed, his white coat smartly pressed, and his gaze always genuine.

Babe liked this guy a lot.

“Welcome back, Mr. Heffron.” Dr. Winters greeted him warmly as he escorted Babe into his office. “Please, take a seat. I'll pull up your results.”

See, the thing was, Babe had been getting these god awful migraines on-and-off for about four months now. It had started as a dull ache on the back of his head. This was eventually coupled by sharp, shooting pains behind his eyes. Then came the sensitivity to lights and sounds before he started suffering from bouts of nausea. Here lately, the headaches were growing more consistent and intense, so he'd made an appointment with his primary physician, who'd referred him to this guy, Dr. Winters, at the local hospital research center. Two weeks ago, Dr. Winters had run a bunch of tests—blood work, CT scan, MRI, the works—and now, Babe was there for his follow-up.

Dr. Winters concluded his typing, frowning slightly at the monitor that Babe couldn't see. He folded his hands on his desk and looked at Babe. “How have you been, Mr. Heffron?”

Babe felt himself nodding politely. “Yeah, fine, thanks. Uh, and you?”

A humble smile, soft and fleeting, crossed the doctor's face. “I'm well, thank you.”

“So, what's the verdict, doc? Am I dyin' or somethin'?” He gave a dopey grin, fully expecting Dr. Winters to share in his laughter before assuring him that he was, in fact, _not_ dying. Only, the good doctor's mouth thinned as he turned the monitor to face Babe. He gestured with a pen. “Do you see this shape here, forming at the base of your skull?”

“Yeah, what is that? Is that the top of my spine?”

The pen moved lower. “ _This_ is your spine. This irregular shape here is a malignant tumor-”

“Tumor?” Babe snorted. “What ya mean like cancer?”

Dr. Winters, with all of his polite composure, said quite simply. “Yes, Mr. Heffron, like cancer. We believe your cancer...”

And everything after that got kind of blurry for Babe. His head felt fuzzy, his ears began to ring. He was vaguely aware of what the doctor was saying. Something, something, chemotherapy. Something, something, in-house therapist. There were a lot of papers and pamphlets being shuffled towards him, and who the hell knew that cancer came with so much paperwork?

Babe numbly accepted everything Dr. Winters doled out, and some time later, he found himself standing and moving towards the exit, like a zombie. As he was halfway out the door, another white coat, this one with darker hair and a five o'clock shadow, thrust a card in his hand. _The 506_ _th_ _– Pub & Grill_. “They give a 20% discount for my patients. Tell 'em Nixon sent you and ask for a Screaming Eagle. Hell of a cocktail.”

Babe pocketed the card, wondered if he muttered his thanks, and stumbled out the door.

* * *

Julian's the first person he told. He took it the way Babe expected him to—lots of tears and hugging, and then more tears. He told Bill next. That also went according to plan.

“The fuck you mean you got cancer?” Bill's face contorted with rage and disbelief. “No. No fuckin' way.”

They were in the car driving to the brewery. Babe had thought it best to tell Bill when they were alone and had hoped that by doing it on the way to work he could insure that Bill could only freak out so much before they arrived _._ Now, with Bill cursing up a storm, hands clenching and un-clenching on the steering wheel, Babe wondered if it was such a good idea, after all.

“Who the fuck do these bullshit ass doctors think they are?”

Babe rolled his eyes. “They're perfectly good doctors, Bill. Christ.”

“ _No_ ,” Bill growled resolutely, as if saying it would make it true. “Fuck that. Fuck this shit! I'm—no, Babe. They're wrong. I'm goin' down there right fuckin' now. Tellin' me my best goddamn friend's got fuckin' cancer.”

“You're not goin' down there. _Bill_ , do _not_ turn the car around. We're gonna be late for work again. Now, shut the fuck up.”

Bill made a great show of huffing and puffing out his chest, clearly torn between storming the hospital and actually acting like an adult about the situation. Seeing as how he'd been late to work twice this month already—and Christ, wouldn't Frannie fuckin' kill him if he got fired—, Bill decided to simmer down. But, fuck, he could not process this shit right now.

Gaurnere licked his lips, going another route. “Well...what did Julian say? That little twink gonna stick around, or-?”

“Jesus, Bill, you gotta stop callin' him that.”

“What? A twink's a twink. Ain't my fault.”

Once more, Babe found himself rolling his eyes. Sometimes, it was truly a wonder that he and Bill were such good friends. “Julian, he...he's, I mean, he said...it's fine. We're fine. He's gonna....help, I guess.”

“Help? Help what?”

“Take me to, I dunno, chemo and shit. Look, can we not talk about Julian, right now? I've got cancer. I'm getting treatments. That's all you need to know for now, alright?”

Bill glanced at his best friend, his grip still iron-tight on the wheel. Babe was staring out the window, hard. His jaw was clenched, his face flushed. Clearly, he was flustered by this whole thing, and damnit, didn't Bill feel like an asshole.

The older man nodded. “Right. Well...” He shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat. “When are you gonna tell your ma?”

Babe's head whipped around like lightning, eyes wider than the sun. “Oh, _fuck._ I gotta tell my parents.”

* * *

“Hey, uh, I'm here to see Dr. Roe.”

Babe didn't know how this was gonna go. Therapy. Also known as the last damn place he wanted to be right now. He hated the very thought of therapy, of sitting in some lady's office, moaning about his life while she's scribbling away on her spiral notebook. Babe could see her perfectly in his mind—late-thirties, maybe early-forties, with stiff blonde hair that was perfectly straight, pink cardigan, pearl necklace. God, this was going to be miserable. Only, when he stepped into the office, there wasn't a lady at all. Instead, there was a young guy—probably close to Babe's age—sitting on a little sofa eating out of a thermos.

Startled, the guy glanced up, eyes wide, caught. “Pardon?”

And then Babe was all, _oh._ Because this guy was Attractive. He was _Beautiful_. Pale skin, dark hair, and big blue eyes, with the cutest little nose Babe had ever seen. Babe grinned at the guy. “Sorry to interrupt your lunch, pal. I, uh, I'm looking for Dr. Roe. Is she here?”

“ _Merde_ ,” the guy mumbled under his breath. Quickly, he capped the thermos and stood, extending a hand toward Babe. “I'm Dr. Roe. Sorry, they shifted my schedule around. You're earlier than I thought you'd be.”

“You're the therapist?” No, his voice didn't squeak. It didn't squeak at all. Not even a bit.

The man's lips—thin, little purple lips that Babe could tell were going to be all kinds of distracting—twitched humorously. “You expecting a middle-aged woman?”

“With a pink cardigan.”

“Well, I do have a lot of cardigans, but none of 'em are pink, m'afraid.” The guy—the doctor, his _therapist—_ shrugged casually. “I can try to find one for you, though.”

Babe grinned. “Nah, that won't be necessary.”

“Are ya sure?” And though his tone was sincere, the guy's blue eyes—they were incredibly blue, like crystals, and shiny and bright and _brilliant—_ shone playfully.

“I'm sure, Doc.”

“Please, call me Gene.”

* * *

On Tuesday morning, Babe had his first chemotherapy appointment. Julian drove him.

“How long will it take?” asked Julian, his floppy hair spilling into his eyes a bit. He looked concerned, and the sight of him warmed Babe.

“I think they said, like, four hours or something.”

“Okay.” Julian pulled his Toyota up to the curb in front of the hospital entrance. He gave Babe's hand a squeeze and leaned over to kiss his boyfriend's cheek, a clear goodbye.

Babe's brow furrowed. “You're not coming in?”

Julian blinked. “Oh, well, its just that I've, well...I've got some stuff to do. I would stay, but they close early, so...But text me when its over. I'll come pick you up.”

“Uh, yeah, of course. No, it's, it's fine,” Babe heard himself saying. Although he felt, actually, that it was not fine. He wasn't sure why, but Babe felt very certain that Julian should come inside with him. Nevertheless, he said nothing and stepped out of the car.

Babe was directed to the fourth floor, east wing, where a nursing assistant ushered him into a blue and white striped room where two other men were seated in hospital chairs, all manner of tubes and wires joining their bodies to, what Babe thought looked like, intimidating medical equipment.

“Dr. Spina will be with you in just a moment,” the nurse told him before she skirted away, presumably to deal with something else.

There was a third, empty chair, so Babe took a seat.

“Alright! Another ginger,” one of the men, a fellow redhead, beamed at Babe. “Don't get many of those around here. Hi there, I'm Don Malarkey.”

Babe found himself grinning. “Hey. I'm Babe. Uh, Heffron.”

“Nice to meet you, Babe,” the friendly guy grinned.

Before further introductions could be made, a short guy wearing blue scrubs appeared. He had a clipboard and was flipping through it. “Right, Heffron. That you?”

“Yeah, yeah, that's me.” And Babe couldn't help but beam at the guy's accent, unmistakable to Babe's ear. “You from the southside?”

The doctor—nurse, whatever—caught Babe's eye with a smirk. “Tenth street.”

“Hey, no kidding! What's a guy from the southside doin' here?”

“Ralph Spina.” They shook hands. “I'm your oncologist. That's a fancy way of sayin' I'm the one that gets to make you feel like shit a few times a week.” Spina flipped a page in Babe's chart, marking something down. “Alright, Southside, make yourself comfortable. We'll get you all set up here in just a minute, alright?”

“Yeah, thanks, man.”

Spina just smirked and strutted away.

“South Philly, huh?” asked Malarkey. “I'm an Oregon man myself.”

Babe snorted. “What the hell have they got in Oregon?”

The other redhead grinned. “Not much. Why do you think I'm in Philadelphia?”

“So,” the other man interrupted, speaking for the first time since Babe had arrived. “What're you in for?” The guy had dark hair and dark eyes, his gaze cutting like a knife as he eyed Babe suspiciously.

“I'm, uh, I got a tumor.”

Malarkey shrugged. “It happens. What kind of cancer?”

It was Babe's turn to shrug. “My doctor told me, but the name's so goddamn long, I can't fuckin' pronounce it.”

The dark haired guy raised a slow eyebrow. “The more syllables it has, the worse the cancer.”

“Ron-” Malarkey chided, though he was smiling. “-stop picking on the new kid.” He looked at Babe. “That's Speirs, by the way. Don't be confused by his glaring and growling. Ron's _delightful._ ”

“I am _not_.”

“He's real cuddly. Especially when Lip's around.” Malarkey shoved a tin tray at Babe. “Brownie?”

“Uh, no thanks. I don't think I should eat before my first treatment, ya know? Don't wanna get sick.”

Speirs jutted out his chin towards the tin. “These will help. They're...medicinal.”

Malarkey grinned. “Ron's husband makes us pot brownies. They're to die for. Seriously, have one.” He shuffled the tin a bit until Babe, only somewhat reluctantly, snatched up a brownie with a quick smile and a soft, “Thanks.”

Babe shifted in his chair and took a bite. “So, uh, what're you two in for?”

The question sounded awkward and stilted coming out of Babe's mouth, not the way it did when Speirs had asked. Nonetheless, they responded. Speirs had just come out of remission for lung cancer, which he'd been battling since his late twenties. “Smoking kills. Who knew?” Babe was almost positive he was being sarcastic, but with Speirs it was difficult to tell—what with the straightforward tone of his voice and the passivity of his face.

Malarkey had Stage III non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. “Which basically means my chances of survival are slim-to-none, but hey, I've a good run, so...” Unlike Speirs, his redheaded friend was terribly easy to read, and the casual nonchalance with which he spoke of his cancer was obviously forced. Malarkey might have had a good run so far, but he wasn't ready for it to be over just yet.

Babe looked at both of them and felt a pang in his heart. Ten minutes into his first treatment, and he liked them both already. Only, something told Babe that the cancer ward was not the place to be making new friends.

Malarkey proffered another brownie with a grin, and Babe wondered, of the three of them, which one would die first.

* * *

Saturday evening, Bill came over with a pizza and a six pack of beer. Throughout the first hellish weeks of this whole cancer ordeal, Bill Guarnere had been the one thing from Babe's life that remained the same. And Babe fuckin' loved him for it.

“You wanna Netflix and chill, or what?” Bill asked brusquely, pushing passed Babe and storming into his and Julian's living room like a conqueror. He dropped the pizza box on the table, planting his flag. Julian, who was curled up in the arm chair reading, replied without bothering to look up, “For the last time, Gonorrhea, that phrase doesn't mean what you think it means.”

“I know what it means, _Jules_ , thanks so much,” Bill sneered, using Babe's nickname for Julian just to piss the younger guy off. “Who says I'm not here to deflower our sweet little Babe here?”

“Because I ain't got no flower for you to take, jackass,” Babe laughed, shoving his shoulder into his best friend's as they collapsed on the couch. “Whatta ya wanna watch? They just put more episodes of _Shameless_ on. Or we could watch that apocalypse movie.”

“Which apocalypse movie?”

“Ya know, the one with the thing.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.” Bill shrugged. “Aw, fuck, it doesn't matter to me, kid. You pick.”

So, Babe dutifully scrolled through Netflix and helped himself to a slice of pizza.

* * *

His fourth session with Dr. Gene Roe—his gorgeous and patient therapist with a voice like honey and a Southern charm the likes of which Babe just knew he could fall in love in were it not for Julian—was terrible.

Babe was irritated, severely. He was in one of those moods where he was angry, furious and raging, at the whole goddamn world for no specific reason at all. Every little thing was grating on his nerves, and he felt as if at any moment his entire being would, quite literally, fucking explode.

To every question Gene asked, he delivered clipped, harsh answers, and when Gene finally called him on it, a grand total of seventeen minutes into their hour-long session, Babe had snapped.

“What the fuck do you want me to say? I've got fuckin' cancer. I'm _literally dying._ I feel like shit—all of the time. My whole goddamn body _hurts._ I ache and I vomit and I am _exhausted_ and I just want this shit to be over already, and sitting here, talkin' with you about my fuckin' feelings, ain't gonna make this miserable ass shit any better, _okay_?”

What followed was a tense moment of silence. One in which Babe immediately felt like the world's biggest asshole.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered, eyes shamefully cast on the beige carpet. He couldn't bring himself to look at Gene after his outburst. Couldn't bear to see any disappointment or hurt in the kind man's eyes. Babe sighed, running his hands over his face and digging the balls of palms into his eye sockets. “I'm sorry,” he repeated. “I didn't mean that. I'm bein' a dick.”

“You don't gotta take care of me,” Gene said, his voice quiet but firm. He reached over and rested a hand on Babe's knee until he coaxed the redhead into meeting his gaze, a blue gaze so serious and heavy that Babe felt it like a weight against his chest. “I'm tryin' to take care of you...” Gene murmured. “You gonna let me?”

Starring into those soul-piercing eyes, Babe felt his heart flutter, and he thought, if only for a moment, that being taken care of by Dr. Gene Roe could possibly be the best outcome for his soon-to-be-ended life.

* * *

It was Tuesday, again, which meant chemo, which meant that he and the boys were halfway through their millionth tin of Lip's pot brownies when Malarkey suddenly asked, “How come we've never met Julian?”

Lip, Speirs's doting and dutiful husband, came with him every day and stayed for the first and last half-hour of treatment. He was a lovely guy, all gentle smiles and cozy sweaters, who, Babe had learned much to the dismay of his wallet, also happened to be quite good at poker.

Malarkey didn't have a significant other, unless you counted his best friends, Skip Muck and Alex Penkala, both of whom frequently stopped by the hospital. They were a real mess, those guys—and when the three of them were all together, it was like a goddamn circus. Babe liked them a lot.

“Does he not come because he doesn't exist?”

Babe glared at Speirs. “Aye, fuck off, alright? Julian's real enough. He's just...really busy.”

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say because Speirs narrowed his gaze and snipped, “Too busy for his boyfriend who has cancer?”

“No, but he's in college, so he's got classes, and he works part-time.” Malarkey made a displeased noise, and Babe felt himself growing defensive. “Guys, seriously, its not like that, okay? He's a good guy, really. Look, he drives me to and from all my appointments. One day, I promise, I'll convince him to come in a say hello, alright? Jesus.”

That seemed to appease them somewhat, and when Babe asked Speirs to pass the brownies, he smoothly turned the conversation to Lip and his heavenly baking skills.

“Okay, okay,” Malarkey some time later mumbled through a mouthful of brownie. “But seriously, be honest, Ron, CIA, FBI, DHS, which is it? Which government acronym do you work for?”

“Nah,” Babe shook his head, his movement a little slowed and little silly. Damn, he loved Lip's brownies. “He's not a suit. He's a boot. That guy was in the military. You a SEAL, Speirs?”

A sly grin slid into place on the dark haired man's face. “If I was a military man, I certainly wouldn't be in the Navy.”

“Ha!” Babe whooped in triumph. “You're a Marine!”

Speirs neglected to respond. His gaze shifted to beyond Babe's shoulder, his expression dropping. “And who do we have here?”

Babe and Malarkey turned to greet the newcomer, and Babe's stomach dropped. “Gene!”

“So _not_ Julian then?” asked Malarkey, smirking. Beside him, Speirs was grinning like a cat.

Feeling a blush creeping up on his cheeks, Babe cleared his throat and mumbled, “No, this is, this is Gene, uh, Dr. Roe. He's my...ya know, counselor or whatever.” Babe wished he could stand, but he was weak and connected to a complex series of tubes and wires, as always. He motioned as much to Gene, and asked, “What're you doing here?”

Gene wandered further into the room, withdrawing something from his pocket. “Ya left your headphones yesterday, and I know ya listen to music sometimes durin' treatment, so I thought I'd drop 'em off for ya.”

“Oh, thanks, you didn't-”

Fuck, Babe was blushing like hell, he knew it. He felt like an idiot. And judging by the shit-eating grins Malarkey and Speirs were exchanging, he must've looked like it. Summoning some dignity, Babe said, genuinely, “Thank you, Doc. I appreciate it a lot.”

“Anytime, Edward. I'll see you on Thursday.” Then, just as swiftly as he appeared, he was gone.

There was a moment of silence, and then, “Who the fuck is Edward?”

* * *

At their next session, Gene asked about Julian.

Babe swallowed, caught off guard. He focused on the buttons on Gene's shirt as he muttered, “He's my, well, my boyfriend. Surely I told ya about him already.”

“No, you never mentioned him.” There was something to Gene's tone. Something not quite right. Was he mad that Babe hadn't talked about Julian? It made sense that his partner would be important to his treatment, he supposed. His therapist shifted, crossing his legs at the ankles, and instructed, “Tell me about him.”

“S-sure,” Babe agreed. Only, Babe didn't want to. He didn't want to talk about Julian at all with Gene. But Gene was looking at him with a fixed stare, one that felt heavy with expectation. “Um, well, he's...”

* * *

The alarm clock on his bedside table read 2:07am when Babe found himself bolting out of bed and stumbling blindly into the bathroom. Julian found him hugging the toilet and vomiting profusely only minutes later.

“Babe, are you okay?” Julian asked, voice thick with sleep.

Several thoughts flew through Babe's head—none the least of which was, _Does it fuckin' look like I'm okay? Christ._ Only, he couldn't voice any of those thoughts as another wave of nausea hit him. He lurched against the toilet, flames crawling up his throat.

“I'll go get you some water,” mumbled Julian. He disappeared, presumably into the kitchen, and Babe slumped against the tub. God, he felt like shit. He wanted to take a shower. He wanted to brush his teeth. He wanted to change his clothes and crawl into bed and pretend like none of this was happening.

_Cancer? What cancer?_

When Julian returned with half a cup of water, Babe waved it away. “I need-” He attempted to stand and fumbled until Julian caught him and helped him to his feet. “Teeth. I wanna—let me brush my teeth first.”

So Julian stood there, supporting Babe's weight, while the redhead clumsily brushed his teeth. When he was finished, Babe gulped down the water, thanking Julian as he handed him back the empty glass. He cast a longing glance towards the shower.

“What is it?” Julian asked.

In the bedroom, one of their cellphones pinged.

“I feel disgusting,” Babe replied. He'd been having night sweats and knew he must've gotten _some_ vomit backsplash on himself. “I kinda wanna take a shower.”

“What? No, Babe, come on. Its like, two in the morning. I've got class tomorrow. Let's just go to bed, okay?”

Babe knew he wouldn't be able to take a shower without some help. So, though he didn't want to, he nodded and complied with Julian's wishes. His boyfriend guided him back into bed, where Babe fell like a painful, pitiful lump. He absolutely despised the pathetic note in his voice when he asked Julian to get him another glass of water.

“Sure,” Julian sighed, retreating to the kitchen once more. As he went, there came another ping, and Babe glanced lazily at his nightstand. His phone was not lit up with a new notification.

Another ping. _The third ping to come after two a.m._ , Babe thought curiously. With a muffled groan, Babe rolled over and snagged Julian's phone off the charger.

_Stefanny, 2:23am – Had a great time at the party tonight. Wish u could have been here!_  
_Stefanny, 2:31am – Are we still on for tomorrow?  
_ _Stefanny, 2:32am – I told my roommate we'll need the room, so we won't be bothered. ;)_

Babe felt his stomach dropped. Goddamnit, he might actually fucking vomit again.

“Who the fuck is Stefanny?” he demanded, his voice like steel. Babe thanked heaven that he didn't sound as pathetic as he felt.

“What?” Julian questioned, dropping Babe's glass on the nightstand. “She's some girl in my study group. What're—are you on my phone? Are you going through-”

“You cheatin' on me, Jules?” The nickname felt like acid on his tongue.

In the dark, he _felt_ more than heard Julian's sigh. “Babe, you have no idea-”

“Get out.”

“What?”

Babe sat up straighter, trying not to slump too much against his headboard and pillows. “I said, get the fuck out. Pack a bag and leave. You can come get the rest of your shit later. I need to not see your face right now.”

“Babe.” Julian practically flailed in hysteria. “Its the middle of the night. Where am I supposed to go?”

“Not my fuckin' problem.” Babe snorted, “I'm sure ya can crash in Stefanny's dorm room.” Then, Babe snorted again. “I can't believe you fucking _cheated on me_. I've got _cancer_ , you fuckin' asshole!”

“I _know_ , Babe! I know you have cancer, shit. Its all we ever talk about. Its all we ever do! Dealing with your cancer is my life now, apparently. God.” Julian snapped. “Fuck. Can't we just-”

“Julian.” Babe's entire body clenched with rage. The nausea had passed, but the bad taste remained behind. “Get—the fuck—out.”

Julian collected his things for the night and left without a word.

* * *

The next morning on the way to work, Babe stared out the window and announced, “I kicked Julian out.”

“Ha!” Bill cheered. “Finally. Its about damn time, kid...so what now?”

Babe thought about work, thought about his chemo appointment later that day. Then, he said, very firmly, “Let's go get drunk.”

* * *

“What changed?”

Babe sighed, gaze flickering over to his therapist. “I'm sorry?”

 “Somethin's different.” Gene made a vague hand gesture. “ _You're_ different. What changed?”

He wanted to snap that he had cancer—his whole goddamn life had changed. But he didn't. Shrugging, Babe replied, “Uh. Julian moved out and...its just harder than I thought it would be. Doing this...ya know, alone.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” It was the kind of phrase that people just _said._ But with Gene, Babe had no doubts about his sincerity. Babe caught his gaze and felt his breath shutter. Why was it that Gene always garnered such reactions from him with the simplest of actions? A gaze made his breath catch, a smile made his stomach drop.

Maybe, he shouldn't think too much into it. Certainly, he shouldn't do it right then.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Babe blinked. “About what?”

Gene cocked his head, curious. “The break-up.”

“Oh! Oh, no. I'm, I'm fine. Its fine.”

“Remember what we talked about last week?” Gene asked, his tone sounding, frighteningly, not unlike Babe's mother.

“Yeah, yeah, that I should be more open to my feelings, and shit. Look, Doc, honestly, I'm okay. Julian and I...God, I can't believe I'm about to say this. Honestly, if Bill were here he'd go fuckin' nuts. Look, I liked Julian—a lot. But we were always better off as friends. We just...” His eyes found Gene's. “We just were...we just _were_. We weren't in love, we weren't happy, we were just...together. For the sake of not bein' alone, I guess.”

Babe couldn't stand the way that Gene was looking at him. It was the first time the other man had looked at Babe with pity. So, Babe blew out a deep breath and clapped his hands on his thighs. “Anyway, he's got Stefanny now, and I've got you-” Babe said it with a silly grin, one he hoped would reassure Gene. “-so its all a-okay, Doc.”

But leave it to his therapist to ruminate on a serious moment.“You do have me, ya know.”

Gene said it all too seriously, and Babe felt it in places he shouldn't have, and it was all just _too much._

“Can we talk about something else?”

* * *

The following Tuesday after his chemotherapy appointment, Babe was waiting at the stop outside the hospital to catch the bus when Gene appeared. He gazed down at Babe, a messenger bag strapped across his chest, a thermos in his hand. “Is this part of what ya meant? Doin' it alone?”

“Hey, Gene.” Babe shrugged. “Yeah, well, I don't have a car. Julian used to drive me... My buddy Bill's gonna pick me up tomorrow.”

“The bus after chemo's gotta be pretty rough.” Gene flashed his keys. “Lemme give ya a ride.”

Babe's inside went fuzzy and warm, but he heard himself declining. “Ya don't have to do that. That's very kind, though. Thank you.”

“Won't take no for an answer, Edward.”

Smiling despite himself, Babe sighed. “How 'bout this, Doc? I'll go with ya if you _promise_ to stop callin' me Edward. Just call me Babe, will ya?”

Gene smirked—and frankly, it was the sexiest goddamn thing Babe had ever seen. Fuck, why was his therapist so hot?—and turned, calling over his shoulder, “Come get in the damn car, Heffron.”

In the most surprising moment of his life—apart from that time Dr. Winters told him he had cancer—, Babe discovered that Gene's car was _disgusting._ It was the beautiful man's greatest secret. Apparently, his home was very neat, and Babe knew his office was impeccably kept. But his car was a fucking dump. There were textbooks and extra clothes everywhere. Notebooks and pens and highlighters littered the floorboard and backseat and were stuffed into the cup holder. There were also a ton of empty to-go coffee cups and crumpled up Subway wrappers.

“Gene, what the fuck?” Babe laughed. The tips of Gene's ears turned pick, instantly, and he began to babble away an explanation, but Babe didn't listen. Instead, he muttered, “This is the second greatest day of my life.”

Gene blinked. “Sorry?”

And Babe flashed him the biggest grin in the world. “I was beginnin' to wonder if you were human. Ya seem just so damn perfect all the time, but now I know the truth.” He gestured the trash-can-that-functioned-as-a-car. “You're a mess!”

Gene murmured, “M'not perfect, ya know? You might not believe this, but I've got a terrible temper. And m'very pushy.”

“Pushy?”

Gene nodded seriously, but there was a hint of a smile playing on the corners of his mouth. “I push people. I been told I have...high expectations for those around me.”

A loud laugh burst forward from Babe. “Who told you that?”

“...my momma.”

They laughed together. They laughed until Babe's stomach hurt, and in spite of several weeks of downright agony, Babe welcomed the pain.

* * *

A week later when Babe went in for his treatment, Malarkey's chair was empty.

Half an hour into the session, he glanced over at the empty chair before his gazed moved on to Speirs. The other man was staring out into the hallway, his expression more vacant than Babe could ever recall seeing.

He knew the answer to his question before he asked it.

“Hey, Ron, where's Malarkey?”

Speirs did not look at Babe when he answered. “He died last night.”

They didn't speak for the rest of the day.

* * *

At their next therapy session, Babe told Gene about Malarkey.

“I'm the only redhead now,” he said softly, lost in memories of Malarkey's laughter and his bad jokes and his _insane_ friends, Muck and Penkala. “I'm...I'm gonna miss him.”

Then, Babe thought, _not for very long._

He bit his lip, fingers playing fruitlessly with the frayed blanket that was draped over the couch in Gene's office. “I think I'm just starting to realize that I'm going to die. I look in the mirror and...I...I see it, ya know? Not death or the cancer, but I see my body givin' up. I'm so fuckin' pale. Like, paler than I've eva been. And I'm fuckin' Irish, so that's pretty damn fair to begin with. And my eyes look...and, just, Jesus Christ, I...”

The lump in his throat refused to move.

“You can't give up hope, Babe.” Gene's voice, as always, was soft, but steadfast.

“You sort of have to say that, don't you? I mean, its your fuckin' job, but you can't really believe that. I'm going to die. Why the fuck won't someone just come out and say it? I'm going to die. _You're_ going to die. We all are. Ya know, you just, you'll hopefully go a long time after I do. But that's the whole point, ain't it? We're all gonna die, it's all just a matter of timin'. You're gonna get married and have lots of little baby doctors and shit, and you'll vacation in France, and maybe you'll write a book or something—but me? I'm the one that's got-”

 _I'm the one that's got to live with this._ Then, Babe realized the irony of his thought, and he laughed, a gross, hollow sound.

Gene did not laugh with him.

* * *

After seemingly endless weeks of chemotherapy and body aches and vomiting and more headaches than Babe could ever have hoped to account for, the time had come for his check-in with Dr. Winters.

“This is important, right?” asked Bill as they mounted the front steps of the hospital.

“Very,” answered Babe. “Let's just hope like hell this shit's gone now.”

“Sounds good to me, pal.”

Dr. Winters ushered them into his office as soon as they arrived with polite greetings and forced small talk. Bill shut that down immediately. “Just give it to us straight, will ya? Is he still fuckin' dyin' or what?”

“Jesus, Bill.” Babe pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dr. Winters, I'm sorry. My friend here was never taught any manners-”

“How dare you slander my mother, ya moron. You know damn well and good, Mama Guarnere raised me right. I just don't see the point in all this 'how's the weather' bullshit when my best friend's got a lump on the back of his head that's eating his goddamn brains out.” Bill fixed Dr. Winters with a withering stare. “So, I repeated, is he fuckin' dyin' or what?”

Babe's eyes were wide and horrified as they glanced at the good doctor. Fuck, he was _mortified._ But Dr. Winters merely nodded his understanding, “Mr...?”

“Guarnere,” Bill helpfully supplied.

“Mr. Guarnere has a point,” replied the doctor graciously. He typed something onto his keyboard, then pushed the monitor to face the best friends opposite his desk. “As you can see, the tumor has continue to expand down the top of your spine. I'm afraid the chemotherapy treatments aren't working as well as we'd hoped. Unfortunately, the next step is to remove the tumor.”

“What like, surgery?” asked Babe, his eyes glued to the monitor. That was his head. That was his skull and his spine and his _tumor._ And it was _growing._

 “Yes, surgery. Dr. Nixon is going to operate. He's one of our finest neurosurgeons.” Then, with so much sincerity that Babe actually believed him, Dr. Winters added, “I wouldn't trust anyone else to operate on myself. You're in great hands, Mr. Heffron. I have a lot of confidence in this procedure.”

Babe felt reassured. Felt himself accepting the news and nodding. It was Bill that asked, “And if this doesn't work?”

Dr. Winters frowned. “If we are not successful in removing the tumor, we will be...out of options."

* * *

The night before the big operation, he crashed at Bill's place so that his mother would quit insisting that he come stay with her and his father—“Honestly, I hate the thought of you bein' at home all alone now that Julian's gone.” Bill had passed out nearly two hours ago, but Babe was finding it impossible to sleep. Fumbling his way to the bathroom in the dark, Babe took a piss, then washed his hands in the sink. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and flinched. Christ, he really did look like absolute shit.

He was looking for something to dry his hands on when he spotted it.

There was a book in Bill's bathroom. What the fuck? Bill didn't read. Thinking the book must've been Fran's, Babe reached for the paperback and casually turned it over in his grip.

_Facing Cancer Together._

Well, whatta ya know about that? On the inside with the front matter, Bill had scratched through the title with a pen and scribbled an alternative title in his barely legible writing, _How to Kick Cancer's Ass_. This brought a soft smile to Babe's face, and he thumbed quietly though the pages. All throughout the book, there were written notes in the margins and little arrows pointing to certain passages, or the occasional underlined phrase.

His best friend loved him.

Warm and content with that thought, Babe dropped the book on the back of the toilet and made his way to Bill's bedroom—given Babe's pain, Bill had taken the couch, thoughtful little shit that he was. Babe collapsed on the bed and reached for his phone.

Gene had given Babe his number a few weeks ago. “For emergencies,” he'd said. Babe hadn't told Gene about the surgery. As there was a not-so-small chance that he might die tomorrow, he figured he should give his therapist a call.

“Edward, is everything alright?” Gene asked this instantly, voice thick with sleep and concern, and Babe, regrettably, felt like a dumbass. “Shit, I didn't realize how late it is. Sorry. Sorry. I just-”

“What is it?”

“When are you going to stop calling me Edward?”

There was a slight pause, then a lovely little sigh of his name through the phone. “ _Babe._ ”

His lips split into a smile. “Much better.”

“What's wrong?”

“I'm having an operation tomorrow.” To remove the tumor. To remove my cancer. To save my life. Hopefully.

Gene didn't speak for a while. When he did, he asked, “What was the best day of your life?”

“What?”

“In my car, when you...saw its state-”

“A state of disaster,” interrupted Babe with honest to God giggles.

“Stuff it, Heffron. That day, you said, was the second best day of your life. So, what was the best day? Tell me about the best day in Edward 'Babe' Heffron's life.”

And if only for the way that Gene's voice sounded like warm velvet when his called him _Babe,_ Babe began to tell Gene about the day he met Wild Bill Guarnere.

When Babe finally found sleep, it was with Gene's voice murmuring softly in his ear.

* * *

He had the surgery. And he survived.

* * *

A month after his surgery, Babe was sitting all cancer-free and happy, on the coffee table in his living room with his best friend poking at his scar. His _still healing_ scar. “Can you just fuckin' quit it? Please. C'mon. Gene's gonna be here soon.”

“Alright, alright, stop your yappin'. I got it.” There was a sudden cooling sensation on Babe's neck—the medicinal ointment he assumed—, then the pressing of a bandage. “There. All done.”

Babe was putting his surgery recovery kit away when the doorbell rang.

“I'll get it!”

“God, no, Bill, please-”

But it was too late. There stood Bill, chest up, chin out, blocking the door in all of his Italian, Gonorrhea glory. Babe rolled his eyes, “Christ, Bill, _move._ ”

Shoving his best friend aside, Babe smiled sheepishly at the good-looking doctor. “Hi,” he greeted, already breathless at the mere sight of Gene.

“Hey, Edward.”

Babe groaned, “C'mon, Gene,” while Bill hooted in the background, “Edward! Heh!”

“Sorry,” Gene murmured, though the delightful little amused curl of his lips said otherwise. He hefted a takeout bag towards Babe. “I brought Chinese.”

“I love Chinese,” Bill declared. This earned him a glare and a clap on the shoulder from Babe, “Right. Time for you to go.”

“Okay, but-”

“No, buts.” Babe shoved Bill's car keys and jacket in his arms. “See ya later.”

Bill looked at Gene. “I already changed his bandage, but he hasn't had his pain meds since this afternoon, so after dinner, he might need some, and-”

Gene interrupted Babe's best friend with a pointed, “What time should I put him to bed?”

“Ha!” Bill startled with a laugh. “He's funny. I like that. You're funny.”

“Bill, I love you, buddy, but get the fuck out.” Babe forced his friend out the door and shut it without another word. Turning, he crossed to Gene and asked, with a blush, “You gonna put me to bed, Doc?”

“No.” Gene shook his head slowly, his voice low and dangerous. “M'gonna take you to bed.”

Then, he kissed him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to all of the Babe/Julian fans out there. I love Julian, truly. But it was *too* easy to make him a little villainous here.


End file.
